


All Agents coming to the Rescue

by Katherine737



Category: Person of Interest (TV), Warehouse 13
Genre: Character Study, F/F, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, I needed to find a way to save Shaw from Samaritan after the Stock Exchange, this is that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:15:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25162234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katherine737/pseuds/Katherine737
Summary: After watching If-Then-Else (4x11) I needed to find a way to change the outcome. After eliminating the impossible ways, I found one. And no matter how improbable, this is my truth to everything working out alright.
Relationships: Myka Bering & Tracy Bering, Root | Samantha Groves/Sameen Shaw
Comments: 13
Kudos: 50





	All Agents coming to the Rescue

**Author's Note:**

> This turned out as a character study within a fix-it, or a fix-it within a character study. You tell me.
> 
> It's my go to after every rewatch of Person of Interest and maybe publishing it can help someone feel as warm and comfortable with everyone being safe as I did writing it.

There are several kinds of bonds between people. Family. Friends. Co-workers. Etc.

They presents themselves in a myriad of different ways. Hatred. Protectiveness. Anger. Familiarity. Care. Fondness. Etc.

Shaw has watched and categorized them all.

From the way sometimes hatred is veiled protectiveness. When annoyance is feigned. How fear might translate into love.

She has studied all of them. The bonds between people and the emotions. She wanted to understand them, to know how she fit into them.

Dad always said that it didn't matter where or whether she fit in, but māmān was different. Māmān worried why she never brought many friends home.

Māmān looked at her in that way that was Love and Exasperation and Worry all at once and Shaw studied it, compared it to the way other people looked at each other until she firmly put it into the "Family"-category.

She tried to receive other emotions from her, tried to make her mother worry less, give her reasons to be proud. And while college did that, her mother still asked after friends, other students, potential relationships.

Shaw learned early on that she wasn't one for relationships.

She was never one to gush over boys with the other girls. She recognized the attractiveness of a person, saw when others were attracted to her or to someone else, but when she went to Troy and told him about Cindy, Cindy was angry at her instead of grateful. They ended up married and Cindy still never forgave Shaw.

Betraying confidence was a thing even if it was impractical.

Relationships were hard work.

Because even when, growing up, more and more people pretended to be rational, none of them ever really were.

Except for Shaw.

She could do rational. She excelled at it.

She was also careful to keep everything and everyone at rational.

Sometimes she failed.

There was her roommate at college, Gianna. Shaw didn't treat her any different than anyone else, but before soon she recognized the way they had developed their routines, how they compensated for each other, the way they brought each other coffee or sandwiches and without Shaw having anything to do with it, there was this bond between them.

Roommates was a category she didn't have before but it looked suspiciously like family for her.

Maybe family of time.

College was over and their little bond broke.

Shaw was feeling both relieved and strangely amiss about it. She still sometimes answered Gianna’s emails. Even if it was from a bogus account and she didn’t allow Gianna to call her by her real name.

She recognized that routine was dangerously comforting.

It's why she never allows Root to bring her food on a schedule.

Routine developed trust and trust developed feelings.

(But then, Root didn’t exactly follow anyone’s schedule but her own or the Machine’s, did she?)

Shaw was careful. She never got close to the other med students, studying alone, only exchanging small favors for others, but never getting into a routine, careful not to develop a bond.

She was the same during her training, even though she soon realized that she had to rely on her superior, had to put her trust in their abilities to do their job.

It was the hardest part of the training.

Helping the new recruits was easier. They were always a tight bunch, some of them standing out, but none of them too much, and they never stayed too long before they got their own missions.

In a way Shaw liked that. Routine with a finish line. Never getting too close.

She grew confident in her own abilities to keep everyone at a safe distance.

She never saw the bond between Cole and her until it was there, until she knew she'd risk her life for him, even if he made a mistake.

It changed things.

It took away her hard worked trust in her superiors and their betrayal shook her more than she wanted to admit.

Until she learns that the Machine is still working and Harold becomes a new superior that's trustworthy because the numbers are trustworthy. They are easy.

Safe one, maybe get the potential murderer in prison, leave.

She is careful not to get close.

And yet there is a new routine.

Limited contact to the outside world.

Before soon there are new bonds.

Family.

Fear with an underlying  _ something _ .

Before soon there is a kiss, a shove, and closing elevator doors.

She blames the dog.

* * *

Myka is alone in Artie's office when she is suddenly overcome with the sickeningly sweet smell of fudge. She puts down the inventory lists carefully and looks around without moving. The office looks exactly like yesterday which means that at least nothing has moved on its own.

It takes her a moment to notice the only thing out of order, just because she never approaches it.

Claudia's laptop is blinking brightly, five numbers flashing in bright green colour.

Myka tilts her head, trying to work out the meaning of the numbers. They could be coordinates or bank numbers or...

Most likely social security numbers, she concludes, drawing closer to the laptop, and the smell of fudge dissipates.

Frowning, Myka takes up her Farnsworth and calls Claudia to tell her about the strange occurrence. Claudia blinks up into existence before Myka has finished her question, making her flinch and then smile.

“Is that really necessary?”

Claudia shrugs, the smug smile on her face never leaving.

“It's practise. I remember someone once telling me that I have to work hard to keep my place here.”

Myka shakes her head, not quite able to keep from smiling.

The second Claudia's eyes fall on her laptop, she rushes over there.

“What did you do?”

She sounds affronted and is immediately busy as she tries a couple of shortcuts that she taught Myka to determine what her laptop is up to. Myka shrugs.

“I didn't do anything. In fact, I think it might have been the Warehouse since I smelled fudge.”

“Not good,” Claudia swears under her breath and Myka doesn't know if it is because of the fudge or the fact that her computer doesn't react to any of the usual commands.

“What are those numbers?”

“Judging by the length of each, I'd say they're social security numbers,” Myka says, shrugging. “But I could be wrong. It could be anything.”

“Well, that's easy enough to check,” Claudia grunts, sitting down and typing away at Artie's computer.

Myka sighs and goes back to reorganize the inventory system, making a mental note to explain the importance of following simple rules to Pete  _ again _ , when Claudia squeaks.

“What?”

There are four faces on the screen a fifth bracket grey with the number identification still running, first two men, then two women, the last one immediately draws Myka's attention.

“Tracy?”

* * *

Root doesn't remember moving, but suddenly the boys are holding her back, preventing her from escaping, hindering her from helping, from...

She hears a long-pitched scream and when she realizes it's hers it turns into a sob, just as the elevator doors close and the gun shots start.

She is sitting on the ground when the elevator opens with a ding. Someone pulls her up and insists that she moves, so she does. She moves through the blurry surroundings, barely holding it together, until she feels Fusco tense.

There are two guns in her hands before she can think about it.

The machine’s curious silence is the first reason that she hesitates to shoot. The second one is that she knows the pale face in front of her, recognizes it from another life, from another time that doesn't feel real now, with two guns in her hands, the boys around her and Shaw...

“Tracy?”

She doesn't think about it, just lowers her guns, taking in the two other people behind Helena. A tall unthreatening guy and some young redhead that some part of her brain identifies as Claudia.

She knows she made the right decision when she remains silent instead of giving her a target.

“Stand down, Reese,” Root breathes, when she realizes why no one is moving, almost shaking her head at the fact that Reese holds a gun while he's barely able to keep himself upright.

“We need to get moving.”

More gun shots ring out, coming from the stairwell downstairs and everyone flinches, while Root straightens and runs to the stairs.

“Root!” Reese protests, his gun still leveled at Helena.

The machine suddenly buzzes in her ear and Root nods.

“Trust them,” she orders, her eyes meeting Reese's for a second, knowing he has to believe her, before she looks at Helena.

“He needs medical attention.”

“Myka...”

Helena calls after her, voice almost breaking on the two syllables and Root whirls around at all the emotion in that short name.

“I know.”

The machine is already counting down again, informing her that Reese, Harold, and Lionel have a 85,23% chance of making it out of here alive with the help of the new arrivals, odds getting worse every second they wait for them. Meanwhile Shaw is still alive, Samaritan will probably keep her alive, but her mental survival is hanging on Pete and Myka, shooting their way through Samaritan's agents. Without Root their odds are quickly going against zero.

Root doesn't allow herself to feel the panic at the thought of never having Myka roll her eyes at Warren Bering's gruffness, never seeing Myka relax in Mama Bering's embrace before shrugging her off again, never having Myka sigh at an offhand comment of her sister.

Instead she flies down the stairs, while the machine is informing her of their exact locations, when the unique sequence of targets sound in her ear. Turning the last corner, Root shoots, taking down four agents, five, seven, barely missing Pete who is carrying Shaw in his arms, twelve, and grazing Myka in the process. She feels her hand tremble at the realization and she hesitates for a split second, wide eyes meeting Myka's as Myka leans against the nearest wall, holding her arm, while the Machine's buzzing intensifies. Root gestures for Pete to pass her by and shoves Myka to the stairs, already taking down the next targets.

Their survival chances have magnified to 32,6 %, if they get out in the next minute. Root ignores that the other’s survival chances have been lowered to almost that exact number because those idiots are waiting.

“Run, the others are waiting upstairs,” she orders and to her surprise, Pete obeys. She remembers for a moment that once, before their work seemed to disappear of the face of the net, both Myka and he were Secret Service Agents, trained to act first, ask questions later, and she is happy for it, because both of them run and when the Machine's buzzing can only be described with excitement she almost smiles, trusting in their thirty per cent.

Before long they scramble into one of two big vans that reek of spray paint and almost look like emptied band busses.

Root feels annoyance at that, annoyance at how easily they will be traced, but the Machine still buzzes with something akin to happiness, promising that they won't be detected, that they are safe now, and she waits for the buzz to end but it doesn't.

There are statistics of gunshot wounds as a strange lady with a curious accent proclaims herself to be a doctor and proceeds to examine Shaw. Root is tense, her eyes tracking the doctor’s every moment, questioning her doctorate, while the Machine assures her that the woman, Dr Helen Magnus, 165, and if that glitch doesn't seriously worry Root, has had ample time to study medicine.

It doesn't help that Myka keeps throwing suspicious glances at the doctor, clearly not knowing her either.

“She's stable for now,” Dr Magnus finally proclaims with a strange satisfaction, having worked throughout the jerky movements of the van, applying bandage after bandage. “However, I will still need to take out the bullets once we arrive.”

“Arrive where?”

Myka barks out while Pete reaches for her arm, squeezing it in a reassuring gesture.

Root would have asked after Harold and Reese and Lionel, but the Machine keeps telling her that Helena, 149, is bandaging up Reese, his survival at at peachy 89,76 %. Shaw's not that lucky. The Machine wouldn't exactly call her stable, but She seems to have a strange confidence or should Root dare to call it trust, in Dr Magnus's abilities.

It's strange and Root considers several viruses when Shaw groans. Everyone flinches and Dr Magus frowns.

“She shouldn't be conscious yet. The pain alone...”

“She's used to being shot,” Root says almost sweetly, while leaning closer to Shaw, hesitating before she quickly, almost not existent, squeezes her hand.

“You're safe, don't try to move.”

Shaw grunts in discomfort and protest and Root smiles.

“Don't try to argue. You'll only lose.”

Shaw hums and strangely, for once, relaxes.

Or passes out again.

She probably passed out again.

Root swallows and leans back against the wall of the van, the bench under her uncomfortably cold. She crosses her arms to keep warmer, to keep herself from feeling like she's falling apart.

* * *

It takes her another brash turn in the road and Myka quietly, oh so quietly, hissing to remember that she grazed her.

“Shit.”

Without thinking about it, she leans to the side, pulls disinfectant and gauze and tissues from Dr. Magnus's bag, before turning to Myka.

“I'm so sorry.”

Myka meets her eyes and there's something new in them, something Root doesn't know how to determine. It's not the familiar underlying distrust, but something different, something she doesn't quite understand. But Myka shrugs out of her jacket, the leather one that's so important to her, and Tracy, no Root, feels another sting at knowing that.

“At least you didn't miss,” Myka says and Root blinks, hands stopping as she pulls up the shirt sleeve.

“The other guy?” Myka clarifies and Root barely manages to give her a smile. She's pretty sure it looks like a grimace. She mumbles a description of the wound and the Machine buzzes instructions for treating it. Root knows all that. She's becoming good at treating gunshot wounds and yet it's reassuring to be getting told what to do, to obey, not to question.

She knows her job.

She knows that she might die.

She is prepared for that.

It should have been her. She should have run out to press that button.

Something rings with a strange metallic tone and Myka moves to take a weird conception out of Pete's hand with her good arm.

“Everything okay over there?”

“We're fine,” she hears Claudia, but she doesn't sound quite fine, she sounds dismayed. “But our guests are becoming impatient. They don't quite trust us.”

Root almost, almost, smiles at that, imagines Harold chipping away at the patience of their rescuers, until Claudia budged and called. She sighs and holds out her hand for the strange conception.

It looks like a steampunk phone, a black and white screen showing Claudia's face, Harold right next to her.

“We're fine, Harry,” Root beams, enjoying him flinch at the nickname until she sees his worried expression. “The doctor treated Shaw's wounds as good as she could and seems to think she'll make it. They tell me we'll be safe in a short while.”

“Why should we trust them, Ms Groves?”

“Ehm, maybe because we just risked our lives to save you?” Pete grumbles not exactly using his inside voice and Root feels her mouth quirk in amusement.

She quickly ponders all of their options, going with the one she is sure will convince Harold.

“Because the Machine send them to pick us up. They seem to be a contingency. Also, Mr Lattimer is right. They did just save our lives.”

Harold frowns at her and Root doesn't forgo her chance at showing him a little unworried smirk. He is the only person who manages to give an agreeing nod in an exasperated way and in any other moment Root might be impressed.

She hopes the conversation is at an end with his acceptance, but then Helena appears in the view.

“Does anyone maybe want to fill us in what this Machine is and how we became its contingency plan?”

She looks disgruntled and judging by the way Helena used to look at Myka when Myka wasn't paying attention, Tracy knows exactly why. This time she can't help her knowing smirk.

Before she can say anything, there's a loud sigh in the background. She thinks it's Claudia speaking.

“Alright. The Machine is an AI running amuck in the world. It found the Warehouse and somehow they've both been learning from each other, making it possible for the AI to call on us when they needed us. Can we discuss the rest when we arrive wherever we're driving to?”

Root frowns at the information. She had suspected the Warehouse to be... something. But it sounds much more interesting than she had gathered so far.

After Root hands over the device to Myka, she sprays disinfectant on the wound without so much as a pause. Myka hisses and glares but accepts the help. Dr Magnus knocks against the metal at the driver side and there are five short knocks in answer.

“It'll be five minutes,” she assures them, but it doesn't help Root when she feels Myka tense at the sound of the doctor's voice. Root once prided herself on knowing Myka's body language, on understanding almost everything that was to know about Myka's thought process, about the fascinating way in which Myka was recalling things. She had studied Myka once, pretended it was a project and not...

Root shakes her head and puts gauze over the wound, just finishing up the bandage when the van stops.

“How is possible we weren't followed?” she asks, almost relieved at the fact that the Machine is still answering her every question even if the answer doesn't make much sense. She doesn't know how, she doesn't know if it's  _ safe _ , but it's familiar, it's reassuring, in a way that's opposite to Myka's worried eyes, the way their familiarity is disconcerting.

Pete helps Dr. Magnus to lift Shaw's stretcher out of the van and onto a prepared gurney. Root grabs on and follows, Myka trailing after her.

“What do you mean?”

Root blinks, confused, still waiting for the Machine to answer, but it buzzes information about Myka, information Root has already internalized, so she repeats her question.

“How come we weren't followed or discovered?”

“I second that,” Reese growls from behind her, coming out of the second van. Or rather, falling. Someone should take care of him.

“Spray paint,” the redhead, Claudia, preens, shaking an inconspicuous bottle in her hand. “Used by Zedd, famous tagger who evaded police again and again. It made us, almost literally, invisible. Like Harry Potter's night bus appears to muggles.”

Myka rolls her eyes, ready to explain, but Root just smiles.

“I know who Harry Potter is,” she reassures her, “but the girl is a bit mad, isn't she?”

Myka shrugs while the Machine buzzes, spitting out facts, Seth Zalinsky, the way he only ever shimmered on security cameras and Root's hand on Shaw's gurney clenches.

“So who invented that invisible spray?”

The Machine is curiously silent as Claudia throws her a pitying glance. Root glares at her, strangely satisfied when, about five seconds later, Claudia squeaks. Myka tenses up again and when Root sees what they are staring at, her free hand twitches for her weapon.

“Someone explain this freak show to me right now!” Lionel grumbles at the huge and hairy... “humanoid abnormal, resembling a Neanderthal, called Big Guy” the Machine supplies, and Root chuckles. She hears her own laughter, too high, too loud.

“She's losing it,” Harold murmurs, his voice loud in her head, but then Myka's hand is at her shoulder, strong and reassuring and she stops and breathes, she breathes and breathes and feels her eyes burning when she looks down at Shaw.

They keep moving through the tunnels because they have no choice. They trusted them and now they have to rely on the Machine's calculation that they are trustworthy. Even when they come to an operating suite where Dr. Magnus tells them to wait outside but invites them to watch through the huge glass window.

Root stays until She starts listing dangers of infections during surgery, and Myka helps her to loosen her fingers around Shaw's cot, gently guiding her away.

Harold watches them, just as Reese does, while Lionel helps him to one of the chairs that occupy the wall opposite of the glass wall. Root doesn't like being watched, so she ignores their searching looks, just as she ignores the fact that she allows Myka to make her sit down, how she grabs hold of her hand, how Root can't help but hold on tight. Instead she makes herself recognize Pete's worry in his fidgeting, the way the other guy displays his uncomfortableness in the tight set of his shoulders, how Claudia has this faraway look in her eyes like she is listening to something only she can hear, although neither Root nor the Machine can detect a communication device on her, and lastly she watches Helena stand so painfully upright, hands clenched into fists, ready to act, ready to move. She looks the most uncomfortable of them all, even though she shows the least surprise at their surroundings.

“Tracy?”

Myka's voice is a soft whisper and Root is so occupied on ignoring everything that she barely registers her, almost doesn't notice. When she finally looks up, Myka is looking at her with her bright eyes, for the first time without any kind of judgement, without any kind of resentment, waiting for an explanation.

Root swallows and concentrates on the beeping of Shaw's heartbeat, evaluating how on earth she could explain all of this.

“It's... complicated,” she finally says.

“Look, lady. We just saved your life because some kind of AI brought us to you. I think that might owe us an explanation.”

“Pete!” Myka admonishes him and Root almost feels a smile at her lips, Shaw's steady heartbeat making her relax, letting her work through the tension in the room.

“Look, Myka, I hear you, but that's not your sister. Have you considered that she might be influenced by some artifact?”

The Machine buzzes senselessly, seeming to talk to herself, until She defines artifacts as 'objects which are imbued with psychic energy of humans, leading to scientifically improbable outcomes'. Myka laughs at the same time that Root does and it takes Root a moment to recognize that Myka's laughing for a different reason and it's Myka who stops first, shaking her head.

“No, Pete. I think that for the very first time, my sister makes sense.”

Root feels shocked, turns fully to Myka, not computing what she's saying.

“That...” Myka shakes her head again. “Tracy? The way you acted back then? It was an act, right? A survival tactic?”

And Root knows that she never really understood Myka at all, that she has grossly underestimated her, never looked behind the straight forward thoughts of her shy exterior.

Something falls away from her as something clicks into place and Root relaxes in the seat. She looks back at Shaw, listens to the reassuring beeping, and allows herself to feel Myka's presence as reassuring.

“Ms Groves?”

Root flinches. It's barely there, only in her shoulders and hands, but Myka notices. Myka always notices everything. It was what made living with the Berings so interesting. And Myka clears her throat, sighs, evidently tries to keep it in and loses as she straightens her shoulders and confronts Harold.

“Her name is not Sam or Samantha or Ms Groves. If she has a nickname she'd like you to use, use it. Otherwise it's Tracy. Or Ms Bering.”

There is something warm inside of Root that she doesn't quite know how to grasp. Even while she has to subdue a surge of cold panic at Myka so carelessly giving Finch her name. She’d done a lot to keep the Bering’s out of her records. As far as she knows Finch never found them, which means other’s can’t have possibly found them.

After she has litigated the panic, she squeezes Myka's hand and simply says “Root.”

“Root,” Myka nods like it is existentially important and Root doesn't know how to...

“Tracy Bering?”

Harold doesn't sound confused, he sounds unconvinced.

“I'm sorry, Ms?”

“Agent,” Myka intones, “Agent Bering.”

“I'm sorry, but this woman seems to have tricked you into believing...”

Myka pulls her head up and stares him down in a way that makes Root proud.

“Root has tricked me more times than you may be able to count but that doesn't make her less of who she is to me. In fact, it only makes her more of my sister.”

Root heartbeat falters at the way Myka uses her name without deliberation, without hesitancy.

Harold clears his throat and drones on.

“Ms Groves was an only child, I'm afraid.”

Myka tilts her head, giving Harold a familiar sickly sweet smile that stops Root's thought process short. For a moment Root doesn't know whether Myka learned it from her or if she adopted it from Myka.

“Tracy came to us when she was fourteen and alone. She may not be my sister of blood, she might even have used my family as a cover for whatever she ran from, but she has never stopped visiting our parents, never stopped calling me, while she left Bishop at fourteen, never to return. I don't quite care what you call a family, but my parents adopted her and even if they hadn't, she's still my sister.”

There's a hum in Root's ears, almost preventing her from noticing John tilt his head. She leans closer to Myka, shuts her eyes halfway, the picture of Harold opening and closing his mouth like a fish, becoming indistinct. And she allows herself to feel the connection to Myka as the Machine spits out random facts about when Claudia had started hacking Tracy Bering’s credit cards, when she had slowly unravelled her identity. It was over a year ago. Myka had come for a visit, acting very strange, looking through Tracy's stuff and frowning when Tracy made tea, only to open the wrong cupboard in search of mugs.

Of course Myka would notice.

Of course she did research.

It's only curious that the Machine never informed Root of that.

Just as curious as the fact that Root was never ready to let the Tracy Bering identity slip, no matter how sloppily it was created by today's standards, no matter how little sense it makes to see grumpy Mr Bering twice a year, how little sense it makes to hold on to sweet and pliant Mrs Bering, how little sense it makes to tease and anger Myka Bering until her eyes blaze.

Root tenses when a head lands on her shoulder, wild curls tingling her neck and cheek.

“I'm exhausted,” Myka breathes. Root hums in disapproval, almost forcing Myka to move away again. Instead Myka grumbles. “I got shot.”

“Grazed,” Root clarifies affronted, but she allows her to stay then, a soft smile playing across her lips as Dr Magnus finishes up and as Shaw's regulated heartbeat changes from anesthesia to sleep, Root allows herself to relax as well.

* * *

Shaw manages to come to in the most inconvenient moment. There is shouting outside, Harold demanding more than one explanation, about this institute, about the strange Agents, how they knew they were in trouble.

Root has already told him to just trust the Machine and follow the Doc's invitation to the library. She doesn't doubt that this library has to be filled with amazing things. Yet, Root opted to stay with Shaw, some part of her needing to  _ see _ her chest move up and down, to  _ hear  _ her steady breathing, to watch the colour return to her skin. So she had taken the offered chair and dropped down next to Shaw while the others continued to wait outside, unwilling to let Shaw out of their sight.

While she was annoyed by it, Root could understand it.

Now though, she's more than annoyed. Shaw's heart beat is slightly accelerating, her hands are twitching, and she should rest instead of getting caught up in this fight.

Myka, who had been leaning against their room's door, has her hand under her jacket, undoubtedly reaching for her hidden weapon. John is already pointing his weapon at her, saying something under his breath while – to Root's utter surprise – Harold is gesturing wildly, having raised his voice.

Root stands up and slowly moves to the door, hesitating.

But then Dr Magnus steps between them, hands held up placatingly, and both, Myka and John shift their attention to her.

Slightly relaxing, Root focuses back on Shaw, who lets out a pained grunt. Root moves back, leans closer to her and forces her voice to be calm and steady, hopes Shaw won't move up but relax again.

“Shaw? It's Root. You're safe here. You've been shot and you need to rest. So please no sudden movements?”

She repeats herself again when Shaw's eyes flutter, barely focusing on her. There is another shout outside and Shaw flinches. Concerned about the pain, Root suggests:

“More pain meds?”

“Safe?” Shaw croaks and Root nods.

“It's safe. I promise.”

She doesn't promise. She doesn't swear. Shaw knows that.

And Root imagines it's why Shaw closes her eyes again to fall back asleep.

She sighs at the sound of another shouting match and finally looks up, only to draw in a sharp breath.

Dr Magnus has raised a gun herself. It looks as strange as the gadget Pete is holding in his hands. Now it is Myka who is holding her empty hands up, standing in the line of fire. Root moves up and to the door without making a sound, when Myka makes a movement with her hand, something glints at her finger and then Myka's gone and in her place stands an exact replica of... Root.

For a moment everyone is silent.

Root herself has stopped short, for once ignoring the excited buzz in her ear, informing her about a person called Harriet Tubman, telling her the story of the thimble, buzzing about HG Wells using the thimble to disguise herself as a prostitute to do something with Jack the Ripper, and something to do with a lantern, and within seconds Root understands that this is not a glitch, that this, whatever world She found while looking into Myka as Claudia tried to hack Root's life, is real.

While Root is still trying to process this, part of her mind is already busy listing all the possibilities this...  _ thimble _ presents. She could disguise herself as anyone, have access to the best protected...

She meets her own eyes, her smirk slightly different, her eyes glinting with amusement tainted with reproach when Myka shakes her head just as she pulls off the thimble.

Root grimaces, uncomfortably reminded that maybe Myka is a bit better at reading her than Root gave her credit for.

“Now,” she hears Myka say languidly (and if Root can hear that smug edge in her voice that does not, in any way, resemble Root's own occasional complacency, she really hopes Harold won't pick up on that because he surely won't like it). “Who here is ready to listen? To accept that maybe the reality they've been living in isn't exactly the reality of the world? And accept that maybe, if there are things like all-seeing AI's, there might be other wonders in the world?”

Root can't help but smile at hearing Myka call the Machine a wonder. She makes sure Shaw is truly out again before stepping out of the room, coming to a halt behind Myka, sparing only a moment to frown at Helena, who is still standing so still, so... inactive at the sideline, unnerving Root.

“Are we alright?”

“Sure, Trace,” Myka breathes and Root finally recognizes that the edge of smugness is hiding a bone-deep exhaustion. She doesn't know why she feels the need to but she follows her instinct anyway and slightly brushes Myka's good shoulder as she passes her on the way to Harold.

“Are we alright, Harold?”

He shakes his head, but in disbelief, not negation. Root gives him a small smile.

“The Machine thinks that this is real, that they are to be trusted. I just don't really know about where we are and Dr. Magnus...”

She squints at the doctor now, hoping for an explanation, for anything.

Curiously it's Helena, who starts talking, hesitantly, avoiding anyone's eyes, especially Myka's.

“We were in New York when the Warehouse contacted me, asked me to come with two vans to the airport, where we met the Warehouse Agents.”

“How did the Warehouse contact you?”

It's Claudia, suspicion evident in her voice. Helena simply shrugs.

“It always liked talking to me, smells, messages on the Farnsworth... It's become less and less and...”

Finally Helena looks up to meet Claudia's eyes. “It hasn't happened in America yet. I thought it was only Warehouse 12 but...”

“Oh,” Claudia nods, seeming to understand, but Root is relieved to see everyone else, including Myka, frown.

“So, what is this here? The Sanctuary?”

“Well, you've already seen the Big Guy,” Helena shrugs again. “I've been staying here, after...”

She swallows again, not meeting anyone's eyes. “Mrs Frederic ordered me to go into hiding. The Sanctuary was the only thing...”

Helena sighs and pushes her hand through her hair in a gesture that almost looks like she is tugging on her own hair. “I didn't know Helen was still alive.”

'165', the Machine says and Root is starting to suspect that She is serious.

“How?” Myka demands and if her voice is slightly breaking no one comments on it.

Dr Helen Magnus sighs and smiles.

“I'm living with a condition that renders my body incapable of aging. You've met my coworkers, one of whom is what we call an abnormal. This Sanctuary, like many others around the world, is home to any number of abnormals that can't or won't live safely in the outside world.”

Root's life is being guided by a god created by humans, her sister seems to lead a live collecting artifacts imbued with energies for the Warehouse that seems to be the sentient being the Machine likes to converse with. So who are they to say that this is where they draw the line?

The Big Guy comes around the corner again, and Harold sinks into his seat, a little bit pale around his nose. John only glares, almost daring Root to roll her eyes.

She refrains. Barely.

Instead she turns back to Myka. Now that Shaw is okay and Root knows what to look for, she's surprised she didn't see it before.

Root sighs.

“Harold, Shaw is fine. Maybe it is time we let Dr Magnus show you the guest rooms she talked about?”

“I can show you,” Helena offers, and with one last look toward her, Harold, John, and Fusco follow her, Claudia and Pete trailing behind. Pete is asking after a possible 'guest kitchen' and Claudia falls in next to Helena, inquiring after the Warehouse’s exact message.

Root gets it. Communicating with the Warehouse is clearly Claudia's element. Root would be put out if She started talking constantly to someone else as well. Even though she knows that exceptions have to be made and sometimes the Machine has to talk to others.

Myka swallows and drags her feet but moves to join the others when Root pulls her back.

“Let me look at the wound again?”

Myka shrugs, but allows her to lead her back into the medical room, allows her to pull off the jacket again, lets her guide her to the free cot, and doesn't protest when Root redresses the wound.

“When did you and Helena break up?” she asks and Myka sucks in a sharp breath, stops breathing for a moment before her shoulders start trembling and she leans into Root, leans into something that is not quite an embrace but contact nonetheless, that is familiar and strange at the same time.

Root can't breathe as she feels her body relax, doesn't know how to cope... until Myka's hand finds hers and she squeezes. She squeezes back and breathes and breathes and breathes and realizes that her little family is not the only one having an exceptionally trying day.

* * *

When Shaw wakes up the second time, an unfamiliar guy offers her water, introduces himself as Henry, and helps her to regulate her bed, so that her position resembles sitting and she doesn't need a straw. She can drink on her own well enough.

She's worried by her lack of worry. Somewhere back in her mind she remembers Root promising her that she's safe, that everyone's safe. She's about ninety percent sure it wasn't a hallucination born from anesthesia and pain medication.

If Root lied, she's going to kill her.

Shaw almost rolls her eyes about her own thought, recognizing the empty threat herself.

It's only then, as the guy, Henry he said, helps her up and she can take in the room. Immediately she realizes that this is not a hospital. It's a medical suite alright, but no hospital.

At first she doesn't see her and wonders whether they left her, whether she has to fend for herself. She's almost ready to force her body to get up when she sees her, sitting on a second cot to the wall, head leaning against said wall, eyes closed. There is a strange woman next to her, head resting on Root's shoulder, legs under her, asleep as well, but on the contrary to Root, legs dangling over the cot, right hand open, undoubtedly ready to jump up at the first sound that wakes her. Somehow the picture of those dark curls draping over Root's shoulder affronts Shaw.

It's like that woman completely trusts Root.

And Shaw doesn't even know who she is.

She is still glaring at the woman when she sees her eyes blink, her face transforming in a gentle smile.

“Myka,” she says like she's reading her thought, her smile strangely resembling Root's, but different, somehow incomplete, compared to Root’s.

Shaw only frowns and the woman, Myka, yawns as she sits up, careful not to disturb Root.

“I'm Root's sister,” Myka says, slowly standing up to squint at Shaw's vital signs. It feels intruding, just as intruding as the words she's using.

“Sister?”

“Well,” Myka says, smiling at her in a charming way that riles Shaw up even more, “technically I guess, we're distant cousins, but my parents adopted her after...” Myka shakes her head, smile suddenly gone.

“I'm sure you know that story.”

Shaw ignores her to look back at Root, daring her to wake up and refute this stupid story.

“She's out,” Myka explains, her voice so gentle, it rubs against something in Shaw, confuses her. “I think she hasn't properly slept in weeks, maybe months.”

Shaw doesn't pay her any attention, but keeps her eyes on Root, daring, begging her to move.

“Your friends are all safe,” Myka sighs, a hint of exasperation in her voice. “Do you want me to get any of them?”

Shaw shakes her head. She's looked at the clock in the room. Judging by her empty, but not quite sick stomach, it's not noon, but midnight. If they are safe here, they should be asleep.

“Do you remember anything?”

When Shaw doesn't react, Myka shakes her head. She keeps talking anyway, lists Shaw's injuries, tells her what they had done to keep her alive, how Root hadn't left her side.

Idiots.

“They came back for me,” Shaw grumbles shortly, still looking at Root. They weren't supposed to. She was supposed to save them.

Myka agrees. She moves to get herself a glass of water as well before fixing her gaze on Shaw with a new quality, like she's searching for something in Shaw's face.

“She didn't hesitate to run back in, to go risk her life for yours.”

Shaw can't help it. She tries to, tries to keep her face calm, but she grimaces anyway.

“What can I say? She does stupid things, like keep thinking she's invincible.”

“Got you out alright,” Root suddenly speaks up. She sits up and her shoulders crack. Root shudders and blinks.

“You're not going to complain about being alive, are you Shaw?”

Shaw resists the temptation to cross her arms, knowing how much it'd hurt.

“Are you hurt? Is anyone else?”

Root shrugs, but there's something in her eyes, something other than the usual flirting that tells Shaw that this conversation isn't over.

“Aside from the fact that I grazed my sister while shooting Samaritan Agents, everything's peachy.”

There's a blow to Shaw's stomach and she frowns, looking between them.

“Sister?”

They do look alike, their smiles similar but different, the dark hair, but other than that their features don't really speak of a family relation.

“Sam Groves was an only child.”

Root sighs as she comes closer, checking her vital signs as well. It feels strangely good.

“Sam Groves realized that living alone, at fourteen, was difficult. I could maybe manage it today, but all the paperwork. I didn't exactly look like an eighteen-year-old, so forging an ID was a stupid idea. So Sam found a solution for another four years, spending the nights at library computers while keeping busy in the day studying humans.”

“So I was a study project?” Myka muses aloud. To Shaw's surprise and absolute horror Root simply slaps her lightly on the shoulder for that.

“Shut up.”

Myka shrugs. “Just curious. You know, to find out how screwed up my family actually is.”

Root beams at Myka in a way Shaw has never seen her do. It's almost like she's affectionately superior.

“The Machine informs me that our parents are boringly normal. It's us that are different.”

Myka hums at that and shrugs, unimpressed.

“Must be your influence.”

Shaw has watched people all her life, has examined how people treat each other, how you can almost see that bond between them that makes them family in one way or another.

In the last months she's led herself believe that the Machine had taught Root how to see those bonds, to appreciate that everyone is appreciated by someone. She'd believed that this had been what had taught Root humanity.

Apparently, she's been wrong. Apparently, Root only needed to be reminded.

It almost feels like betrayal.

But then Myka drops down to the cot again, clearly exhausted and Root draws a chair closer to Shaw, like she has been sitting in that chair for a while, and that smile is familiar and annoying and... Shaw lets out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.

Root is still Root.

But then Root looks back at Myka on the cot, her mouth moving into an almost affectionate smile and Shaw finds herself annoyed with herself, needing to know what this is about, feeling the need to know Root, feeling betrayed at finding out that there are important things about Root she wasn't aware of.

She's even more annoyed at herself when, despite being uncomfortable and unsettled, she feels herself drifting into unconsciousness again.

* * *

“Myka?”

A soft, strangely accented voice wakes Shaw again. She blinks and sees Root tense up in the chair next to her, her head lying next to Shaw's hand without touching her. Despite being angry at all the unanswered questions she has, she follows Root's lead, pretending to be asleep.

Myka sighs and the cot squeaks as she moves.

“What do you want, Helena?”

“I heard you were shot?”

There's undeniable concern in that voice. British, Shaw decides, although it's not quite right, the infliction slightly off.

“It's only a grace. Tracy already bandaged it up.”

There's a short while of uncomfortable silence until this Helena shifts.

“Can I...?”

There's another sigh and Shaw's pretty sure a nod, because in another moment the cot squeaks again and they have to be both sitting there.

“So... Tracy?”

“That's what you want to talk about? Tracy? After you've been awol for months?”

“Mrs Frederic...”

“Mrs Frederic told you to disappear with the astrolabe. I get that. But what about afterwards? You were clearly being trusted again. Artie argued for you because...”

“Of something that neither of us remembers.”

“You died.”

“It never happened,” Helena sounds strangely detached and Shaw wonders whether she has untreated PTSD. She can still recall all the statistics after near death experiences and...

“You sacrificed yourself for us.”

Root's fist closes around the bed sheet and Shaw has a hard time not noticing that. This discussion seems too close to home.

Helena doesn't say anything.

“And then, after you heard about it, you just... disappeared?”

Myka's voice is so expressive, perfectly conveying the turmoil of emotions she must be feeling and Shaw has to wonder whether Helena hears it, whether she  _ cares _ .

She looks up again, carefully opening her eyes a smidge wider, but if she's honest with herself, it seems unlikely that either Myka or Helena notice that they are being watched.

They both look uncomfortable. Myka is tense, shoulders drawn up, showing how hurt she is, while Helena fidgets, guilty. Still, they are closer than is appropriate for co-workers. They lean into each other more than is appropriate between friends. There are feelings spelled out right in front of Shaw and she feels uncomfortable by the intensity of it all.

This is the closeness that people rarely spell out in front of strangers, that says Family and Spouse and Shaw looks away as Myka continues her angry whisper until Helena grabs her hand and apologizes again, profusely, before leaving, giving her space.

Myka jumps up in the same moment as Root stops pretending to be asleep. Myka rolls her eyes, but doesn't stop on her way out.

“Think those lovebirds will work it out?”

Root almost croons, seemingly intent on making this a joke, relieving the intensity of the moment, and Shaw just shrugs.

“Sure.”

“Really?”

Shaw squints at Root. It was just spelled out right in front of them, the neediness, the Fear that comes with the Love, and how is it possible that Root hasn't seen it?

Unless she's emotional about it herself and the bond between her and her suspected sister is even more real than Shaw suspected.

So Shaw simply nods. Root still doesn't look convinced. Shaw doesn't know whether it's her exhaustion, the pain meds, or the sad look on Root's face, but she sighs deeply before she hears herself explain.

“Have you ever noticed how couples gravitate towards each other? How you can identify them by their closeness, how there's even less personal space between them then with other people?”

Root's eyes are wide open but she nods, careful.

Shaw swallows and lifts her hand to point at the glass.

“That's how this... Myka and this Helena behave. They're close. They drift towards each other.”

Instead of following her plea and handing over the water glass, Root tilts her head in thought and looks down at Shaw.

“And how would you describe us?”

“Mortal enemies?” Shaw counters, still looking at the water only for Root to pick it up and dangle just out of her reach, singing.

“Truth?”

“Dare,” Shaw grunts, thinking that the truth is crap, thinking that she wants Root to stop with this nonsense and just hand over the water.

Fortunately she is saved by Harold, John, and Fusco coming into the room.

Also a thought she'd never think she'd have.

She grunts again when they gather around her, all concerned looks and close, way too close, hovering over her like anxious family members around hospital beds.

She thinks she might be sick.

She was so careful, never getting close, never establishing routines.

Turns out, you can still develop familial bonds without routine but by supporting each other to get out of dangerous situations.

Everyone in the room treats Shaw like a wounded family member, Fusco making a stupid joke that she gives him the satisfaction to grunt at, John looking at her with his wounded look, giving her an almost smile that says how happy he is that she survived, and Finch outright telling her he's glad that she's alright.

She is definitely not alright.

She didn't want this.

And it snuck up on her.

Family.

Not to mention Root, who is close, so close, leaning in the way Helena leaned into Myka and...

“You guys should probably go back to bed or have breakfast or something,” Shaw grunts, dismayed at the almost softness in her tone, at the way her voice betrays how her distant emotions come tumbling down on her. How she wants to ask John about the way he holds himself, clearly bandaged up after being shot himself.

How she is completely relaxed with all of them here, with Root so close, her body language like...

Finch nods, John gives her another almost smile, and Fusco agrees wholeheartedly. “Hell yeah, this day was awful.”

She almost chuckles at their predictiveness when they leave, everyone except Root, who just falls down in the chair next to her.

Also predictable.

**Author's Note:**

> Please, let me know what you think.


End file.
